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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28562820">Just Say the Words</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempact/pseuds/tempact'>tempact</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst, Closure, Homoeroticism, Implied driving under the influence, Introspection, M/M, Oneshot, Reverse hallmark movie??, mentions of drug use, word vomit, writer dream and homebody george</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 01:27:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,222</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28562820</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempact/pseuds/tempact</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clay’s one-way flight out of his and George’s hometown leaves in two and a half weeks. In lieu of giving George a timely warning of his impending departure, he told him mere hours before their beloved annual road-trip through the wasteland they call home. But thats a problem for three weeks form now. For now, it’s still them, the warm pavement, and stubborn presence of emotions neither of them really bothered to process.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream &amp; GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Just Say the Words</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the first fic I’ve ever posted, please let me know if I’ve fucked up!! TW for cocaine mention, mild alcohol consumption and implication of driving under the influence! </p><p>Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The air around them is biting compared to the warm pavement beneath them, looking up at the desert’s night sky. It felt quite like the middle of nowhere, and if someone was from a city, it might seem like it really is. Truthfully, town is no more than ten miles out, the slight glow unseen from their eyes which were purposefully turned away.</p><p>    “You’re stupid.” George grumbles, cheek resting on a part of what was once a yellow no-pass line, but years of neglect had made the paint not much more than a few chips on the road. </p><p>    “Oh?” Clay’s voice is surprised, but his gaze remains on the constellations above, a near-empty pack of cigarettes laying on his chest and a half-finished bottle of booze stands between them. His face contorts in the glass. </p><p>    “Yeah. You’re so afraid of staying here you’re about to run away across the country. What’s so spooky about a town of six hundred people?” George is exasperated, desperate, tired, and millions of other things. Scoffing, Clay lifts his arms around his head, stretching out. His shoulders and back snap loudly, the pavement barely muffling the pop of his joints. His mind and body fully ignore the youth of his years. He sits up as he grabs the bottle by the neck, eyes firmly closed. </p><p>    “Okay, then you’re absolutely fucking clueless if you think that’s why I’m leaving,” Clay’s voice reverberates in the bottle pressed against his lips. His eyebrow twitches when he realizes the unintentional harshness of his quip. </p><p>    “Really? Enlighten me then, because you don’t talk enough to make me anything but.” Geroge’s voice wavers; Clay knows he must be shaking. He can’t tell if it’s from anger or the chill of the desert air. </p><p>    He throws the bottle, listens to it shatter over the rock yards away. With  Clay’s teeth buried in his cheek, jaded green eyes meet hopeful brown ones, and he can hardly bring himself to be angry at George. Only at himself, his inability to speak clearly, and his horrid aptitude for words. In their own classic fashion, they just lay back down, misty eyes meeting the moon. </p><p>    Perhaps it wasn’t the middle of nowhere, but it was certainly a wasteland. The people here exist like alley cats, slinking away from any moving form of life and cowering at shadows. The most fun thing to do in this town was coke in the diner’s bathroom. There are no police officers, no schools. Just a bunch of people and the will to survive against the desert’s innumerable fluctuations in whatever ways they could. The aforementioned epidemic left many people bony, with pointy cheekbones and sunken temples. </p><p>    George is Clay’s reprieve from the monotony from their faded reality. His angular face juxtaposes a sweet smile, with large eyes reminiscent of an artist's ceramic, the kind that’s coated in extra glaze to make it shine brighter than the others. They didn’t know or remember how they met; maybe they saw each other at a party one night, or became friends because they’re certainly the two most literate people in this beatdown town. George could read people like Clay read the world, finding the little universes behind everyone’s eyes. Even the dullest of addicts had something to share, according to him. Clay admired his loyalty to goodness, and the belief that it truly is in everybody. But George was far from an angel himself. </p><p>    “So, you’re just gonna pack up and leave me here in three weeks, and not tell anybody why.” His voice is flat now, but Clay knows he’s hiding hurt. Deep down, he feels something twinge in his chest. He ignores it, closing his eyes to block out everything; for a moment, it hides the mess of a situation they’re in. How do you explain to George, a person who has never wanted anything more but to enjoy the world where he stands, that there’s an offer waiting for Clay, thousands of miles away, swirling in the high rises and whispers of a once-in-a-lifetime publishing deal. </p><p>    “Two and a half weeks, and yes.” It wasn’t like Clay hadn’t known he was leaving for months, or like he had been counting down the days since the offer was solidified. “Don’t make it sound like this is unexpected.” </p><p>    “Don’t you dare belittle me. Obviously you’d leave. It’s not wrong for me to expect more than two and a half weeks of notice for when my <em> best friend </em> leaves.”</p><p>    “Life isn’t fair, George.”</p><p>    George falls quiet. Clay tries to ignore the way his cheeks twinkle with every tear that streaks down his face. The air feels much colder now. His chest screams at him to do something, anything to stop George’s silent, painful tears. </p><p>    “Maybe so. That doesn’t make this hurt any less.” His voice is watery. Clay silently agrees, likely for different reasons. It’s painful in the way excitement wraps around his neck and diaphragm, electrifying every nerve from the heart to the fingertips. The unknown is looming Clay, so close to enveloping him in what might be everything he has ever dreamed of. However, the way the thought makes his hair stand on edge makes him ponder if it isn’t excitement, but fear. Thousands of miles away, he won’t have George to coax him back into relaxation, to be the burst of courage under his rib cage. It will be Clay and Clay alone, wrestling with a beast of emotion in a solitary apartment. </p><p>    Their yearly road trip begins in half an hour, just as the clock strikes midnight. They never go far, at most three hours away. George weaves bracelets as Clay drives, the string held taught by whatever he ingeniously engineers to be a makeshift loom. It will be their last tradition together, among many other lasts. Clay knew it wasn’t coincidence, he’ll selfishly steal the next few hours as the monument to their relationship for the rest of his life. Life isn’t fair, but fate certainly is. Their last hurrah, their last dash through the desolation. Geroge’s first and last time wishing he wasn’t from their tiny, forgotten town. </p><p>    “Pobo’s yours. No place for her in the city.” <em> Like you. </em>Clay wouldn’t dare say it aloud, but George is too big to be there for long. His personality would take up countless city blocks, be bold enough to rival the taxi drivers, at least, what Clay imagines the taxi drivers are like. </p><p>    Pobo, short for Powder Blue, the affectionate nickname George gave to their beaten-down pickup. Perhaps it looked quite like one of Elvis’ suits, if Elvis was dragged through sand for hours by his collar, then left to deal with the consequences himself. It truly was a beat up old thing, with more miles than any mechanic could think possible on any vehicle. George giggles, sniffling away tears Clay didn’t realize were still falling. </p><p>    “Can we just get out of here, please?” George smiles as he wipes the tear-tracks off of his own cheeks, the previous years’ rope bracelets riding back on his wrist. Clay nods, his eyes transfixed on the ink cuff around the circumference of Geroge’s forearm. He must regret having Clay’s words on his skin now, spiraling around and around, his favorite passage from his  favorite work of Clay’s. </p><p>    “Just had to say the words babe.”</p>
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